


Count The Headlights

by Bluejay141519



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Angst, Getting Together, Idiots in Love, Jealousy, M/M, Miscommunication, jersey wearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-15
Updated: 2019-08-15
Packaged: 2020-09-01 04:20:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20252071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bluejay141519/pseuds/Bluejay141519
Summary: He wears it as a joke, and it pisses Patrice off. He wears it like there’s nothing important about the number, like he’s just doing it for a friend, like it doesn’t mean anything.It means something. To see his number on Brad like that, it means something.





	Count The Headlights

**Author's Note:**

  * For [blindbatalex](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blindbatalex/gifts).

> Inspired and written to the song "Tiny Dancer" by Elton John, which is easily my favorite song...possibly ever. I listened to Florence + the Machine's [cover](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YQOPqc6zxYg) for this though. If people like it, I might write a partner fic with Brads POV.
> 
> Enjoy!

_But oh how it feels so real_  
_Lying here with no one near_  
_Only you and you can hear me_  
_When I say softly, slowly_

_Hold me closer, **tiny dancer**_

_ **\--------------------------------------------------------------------------** _

It goes like this - by the time Patrice is seven, his mom is already joking about how he’s a ladies man. By the time he’s thirteen he understands what that means. By the time he’s sixteen, he figures out he’s, well, not such much of a _ ladies _man. 

When he’s twenty four and meeting Brad Marchand for the first time, he knows that he falls in love to easily, and too fast. It’s not a surprise then, how fast it happens to him again.

Patrice is in love with his winger, and he’s been in love with him since probably the second month of them being together. He lives with it just like he’s learned to live with every crush he’s ever had, because if he lets it out then he just gets his heart broken. 

He loves the Bruins, he loves his sport and he loves his best friend. 

He gets used to it.

And then Brad walks into the locker room wearing a jersey with different numbers on it, and Patrice unravels a little bit.

**\---------------------**

Patrice practices calm in most of his life. It’s part of his nature - he hates being angry, hates fighting with people he cares about, hates the stress that comes with it. He has always been the one to bit his tongue and apologize just to avoid having to deal with the conflict within his friend group.

There are, however, times when he feels himself get actually angry, and at that point he loses all care for whether he starts conflict or not. This is one of them.

Put simply - It is _ too fucking early _ for this shit.

It’s a Wednesday, in the middle of a three game homestand, the morning after a grueling practice that followed an embarrassing loss to the Flyers. There was traffic, and two people nearly made his car into a pancake on the way to the rink. Patrice is tired, and cranky, and hasn’t had coffee yet.

Then Marchy walks in, already changed into his under armour for morning skate. He’s wearing a game day jersey, and at first Patrice thinks he’s just being funny, until the guys start laughing and ribbing _ him _ and he realizes - oh no, that’s not a _ 63 _ on the back, thats a _ 37 _ , and it’s _ ‘Bergeron’ _ being spelled across his shoulders.

He freezes, watching with some expression of horror as Backes starts laughing uproariously and Pasta sticks his tongue through his teeth before starting to chirp Brad. The others quickly follow suit, occasionally bringing Patrice into it but mostly focusing on the short winger.

Which is good, because Bergy can’t breath. 

He actually has to sit down and move his gaze to the locker room floor before he can inhale again. He has to remind himself to get a grip- he’s still surrounded by teammates, and none of them know about his over blown crush. The amount of shock and hurt on his face was a dead give away, if anyone saw.

Luckily, he’s able to school his face into a neutral expression rather quickly, and moves his limbs to go about changing. It isn’t until he’s got his pads on and is working on his socks that he realizes his hands are shaking. It takes him another minute to realize they aren’t shaking because of fear, or hurt, or pain, but because of _ anger _.

The guys don’t stop chirping Brad - he doesn’t expect them too, they wouldn’t be a hockey team if they did - and everytime Brad gets a chance, it’s always some version of “_well yeah, he’s my guy! I’m here to represent the greatness of Saint Patrice!_ _I love him so much I even wore his number in front of you assholes!”_

He wears it as a _ joke _ , and it pisses Patrice off. He wears it like there’s nothing important about the number, like he’s just doing it for a friend, like it doesn’t _ mean _anything.

It means something. To see his number on Brad like that, it means something.

He may not want to address exactly what it means, or what it makes him feel, but it means a lot to Patrice. It means so much to see his number - _ his _ number, the number he’s put blood sweat and tears into, the number he raised the cup with, the number he’s carried as his and _ only _ his across the entire league - on the back on the man he’s loved for _ years, _ it feels like a slapshot to the throat.

He hates it.

If the guys notice his lack of commentary, or the start shock he wore as a first reaction, they don’t comment. He finishes getting dressed robotically, stiffly going through the motions before jerking his practice jersey on and leaving the locker room.

Chara’s right there next to him all of a sudden, walking with Patrice out towards the rink.

“You alright?” He asks in a quiet, gentle voice. Captain mode has been engaged. 

“I’m dying.” Bergy deadpans, and Chara hums. 

“Just another day at the office then?”

Patrice groans loudly and skates out onto the ice for warmups.

**\--------------**

It _ doesn’t _ . _ Stop _.

Once Brad wears his jersey and the guys react well, it becomes A Thing. He wears it again a few practices later, then again for a thing on Behind the B (which the fans go well and truly crazy for). Then he wears it before a game, and they _ win _ and Patrice has decided that wouldn’t wish this hell on his worst enemy. 

The guys thinks it’s just as hilarious as the first time. And then it becomes just _ normal _, only a few chirps here and there about it. He thinks it should probably say something about the team, or about his and Marchands reputation, that this is accepted so fast. That no one thinks about how weird it should be for a player to wear another players number - and not someone who’s related, or retired. Of course Patrice would like to think that maybe it’s not as taboo as it used to be, but there’s always been an awkwardness around it. 

(Maybe because it’s been an act only reserved for wags, for significant others, and for fans. Maybe because everyone’s so scared of getting labeled not straight. Maybe it’s because everyone has too much pride to put on someone else’s number.)

(_ Maybe _ isn’t enough, because now that Brads worn his number in public - well, it puts an idea in Patrice's head.)

**\--------------**

It goes like this - Patrice has an opportunity, and for the first time in a long time, he acts on impulse.

They’re doing video review. Brads wearing a normal t-shirt. He’s cold, and they’ve got a few minutes before everyone’s ready.

He’s cold, so that means it’s Bergy’s job to get up and run to the locker room to grab him a sweatshirt. Or actually, Patrice is going to be grabbing his _ own _ sweatshirt, from _ Brads _bag. Because, you know, Marchy stole this one like two years ago and now apparently decided that he can wear it around.

Which he can, obviously, seeing as no one can tell him otherwise, and he clearly doesn’t care.

Patrice cares. So he’ll blame the prolonged suffering of having to see Brad walk around in his number all the time for why _ it _happens.

He gets to the locker room, and he’s rifling through Brads backpack. It’s not in there, so he moves to the gear bag. Skates, pads, tape, _ sweatshirt, _ jersey-

It’s weird? Because he shouldn’t have one in his bag. They should all be packed with the others. It’s a game day jersey though, a mostly black one, and it looks stuffed to the bottom. So Brad probably was late changing, didn’t want to get yelled at, and threw it into his bag.

He tosses the sweatshirt behind him, and with two hands he gently pulls it free of the bag.

There’s a small nick in the back of the collar, a few threads starting to fray at the cut. It doesn’t smell the best, cold sweat and ice melt mixed in with however long it’s been sitting in his gear bag.

It shouldn’t be anything. It shouldn’t - it’s not like he’s never seen a Bruins jersey. It’s not like he’s never gotten to hold Brads jersey, it’s just that every time he has, it’s just been to give it to him, or to toss it in the bin.

Never to look at. Never his to _ hold _.

His breath catches involuntarily as his fingers trace the number three. The familiar material is forgein in his palms, suddenly a new thing to discover and feel on his skin. 

Every time Brad’s worn his jersey, he’s been angry, and he’s been hurting, but he’s never thought about- not until the last few times, not until-

It feels like there’s a big bubble of emotion inside him, making the moment charged, bigger than it should be.

He could take it.

Marchy wouldn’t notice, and if he did he’d assume one of the equipment guys found it. The equipment guys must’ve assumed he’d lost it, which isn’t surprising, Brad loses stuff all the time.

He looks at the letters, and he looks at the number and he _ stops _thinking. He’s stuffing it into his backpack with a sort of adrenaline fueled panic, like if he doesn’t get it in fast enough someone will take it from him.

Patrice throws the sweatshirt at Marchy when he walks back into the video, and hopes he doesn’t look as scared as he feels.

**\---------------**

It’s sort of like payback. This is what he decides later that night, sitting in front of his washing machine and watching the jersey spin around in soapy water. He’s got his fourth beer to his left, and his phone on his right. It’s got two texts on it - one from Zee, and one from Marchy.

He can’t bring himself to answer either of them. He knows if he picks up his phone right now, he’ll end up either crying to his captain or betraying his heart to the one who owns it.

He hasn’t been pining for all these years just to fuck it up now.

Patrice takes another sip of his beer, and looks at the jersey again. It’s spinning again, the opposite direction now. It makes him dizzy, but that might just be because his eyes are trying to follow it around while his head is muzzy from the alcohol.

It’s just like payback, except Brad doesn’t know Patrice has one of his jerseys, and he doesn’t know that Patrice gets angry when he wears it, and he doesn’t know Patrice _ loves him _.

He wishes he did.

Sometimes, he really, really wishes he could say it. He wishes he could’ve come clean years ago, wishes they could’ve gotten over it back then, before he invested so much in hiding. 

It feels like a part of him, at this point. The love he has for Marchy burns inside, an inferno that yearns for affection instead oxygen. When he’s away from him it calls, and like the ringing song of a siren Patrice is helpless to resist it. 

He loves Brad the same way he loves hockey. It’s a part of him.

Sometimes, it rewards him. Sometimes, when he’s able to hug Brad, or hang out with him all day, or watch movies together at night, then it feels amazing. It feels like he can breath again, like he can relax and be himself. There’s no pressure, when it’s just the two of them. It’s familiar, and it’s comforting to just be able to be next to him. Those are the days when he thinks he’ll never tell Brad what he feels, because just being friends is enough. Losing Marchy would devaste him, and he knows it.

And then-

Then there are nights like this. 

(Then there are entire days, _ weeks _, like this. Right now, he’s on his way to making it an entire month.)

Nights where he can’t get out of his own head, and he’s angry at himself for falling so easy and guilty because of the lies and sad because it’s _ not _enough, and it never will be.

These are the nights that it hurts so bad he can’t even focus. If he can drag himself into the shower it’s a feat, and he’ll stay there until the water goes cold enough to shock him into movement. If he eats dinner, it’s a miracle.

Mostly it’s spent in bed, and sometimes it’s spent crying until he can’t breath and his throat clicks when he tries to swallow. 

This is when he thinks about leaving, just to maybe get away from it all. It’s when he doubts everything he is, because loving hockey and loving Brad are what make him. When he isn’t sure of one, he isn’t sure of the other. 

There’s been plenty of times he’s considered different teams, different leagues, even full out retirement, just to get away from it.

His love burns inside him, and when Marchy falls asleep on his shoulder, or tells Patrice he trusts him, or wears _ his number _ in front of _ everyone they care about, _ it burns so bright it hurts him. 

So it’s another Wednesday, and Patrice is sitting on his floor, well on his way to drunk, watching his best friends jersey get cleaned. Because that jersey, and the one Brad wears, symbolize what Patrice wants, but doesn’t have. 

It’s like a joke, played by fate. He’s wished for so long, to be able to do things like this. And now they are doing one of those stupid couple things, except Brad is doing it to be a good friend, and Patrice is doing it because he’s heart broken.

Bergy puts the jersey in the dryer, drinks some more, then puts it on still scorching hot from the machine.

He cries himself to sleep that night, hot tears soaking into the fabric and wishing he had a pair of arms around him to tell him everything was alright.

**\---------------**

He should probably hang it up. He should probably put it on a nice hanger and shove it to the back of his closet.

He should probably frame it, and hang it on his wall.

He should probably put it back somewhere in the locker room for some to find. He should probably give it back.

He _ shouldn’t _take it with him on every road trip.

He _ shouldn’t _wear it to bed every night just to feel something other than heart ache. He shouldn’t stare at himself in the mirror with it on, he shouldn’t imagine what it would be like to have Brad there with him, smiling from the door.

He _ shouldn’t _ put it on when he’s alone at the rink and skate around, practicing in it just to _ feel _, just to have his sweat with Marchands. Just to mix himself into the fabric and exist together with only the spirit of hockey to hold them.

  


(He shouldn’t, but he does.)

**\---------------**

It goes like this - Patrice can’t sleep.

When Patrice can’t sleep, normally it’s because of one of two reasons - either he’s stressed about something, or he’s overtired. When it’s the former, he tries to sift through his day, or previous week to find what he’s stressed about and then think it through until he can relax.

When it’s the latter, it means he’s not quite exhausted enough to konk out. 

A while ago he made good friends with the security manager for the B’s, and he knows the maintenance guys. He lets them know he’s going to the rink, the maintenance guys make sure to get there a little earlier to zamboni the ice, and security makes sure he knows all the right codes to get in.

He skates.

It’s something rather calming, even if it’s a little disconnecting. It never feels like a real thing he does. He always stops, out of breath and tired enough to sleep on the benches, and it feels like he’s the only one in the world.

It’s just him, his skates, and the ice. There’s nothing else. 

He doesn’t mean to wear the jersey to the rink, it’s just that he wore it to bed, something he used to find uncomfortable and now finds comfort in. When he makes the decision to go to the rink instead of staring at his ceiling, he throws on sweats and grabs his bag and goes.

So in the same way that the opportunity arose for him to take the jersey, it now arises that he can skate in it. It’s not the first time he’s done this, of course, but every time it feels like something more.

Bergy parks in the empty parking garage and listens to his footsteps echo as he walks in. The concrete is cool when he brushes his finger tips along the large columns. 

The halls are dark. The silence is material, thick but not oppressive as he walks through it. He enjoys the silence of the locker room, the emptiness of what is normally a hub of activity. He gets to hear everything - the zippy sound of his socks sliding over skin and pads, the sound his laces make when he pulls them through their holes, the overly loud ripping of velcro when he puts on his gear. It mixes with his breathing, creating a calming symphony that Patrice can swear he feels in his soul. 

It always sucks to not be able to sleep, to be so tired the next day that he can barely focus. But this part? The part where he’s alone in the parking garage, where he’s listening to himself gear up, where he steps on the ice the first time - these parts never get old.

He sets up a line of pucks on the boards in front of the bench, just like they do before warm ups. The bench door seems to loud when it clacks open, as it always does. The hinges creak too, something that goes unnoticed in the bustling loudness of practice but amplifies here.

Patrice takes a deep breath, surveys the empty, uncut ice, and when he exhales he steps forward. 

The skates cuts in smoothly, a raw sound of what could almost be described at a mix between a wheel rolling over hardwood floors and a marble being rolled right behind it. The sound of dense snow being crushes beneath a boot doesn’t really show up until later, when he’s piled more ice shavings on the surface.

He skates in a lazy circle, then does another and lets his stick trail on the ice next to him. He lets the circle grow, going around and around until the motion envelops him and fills the rink with it’s simple sound. Then he moves to laps, cutting his last circle short to sprint up the ice. 

The practice rink isn’t exactly tiny, but it always feels that way when he’s on it. He always feels like it’s easier there than at real rinks. The Garden has a way of making him feel so small when he’s there, the rink bigger and longer and _ harder _ somehow.

Warrior Ice just lets him be.

He sprints until his lungs burns, and then he lets himself glide around till he gets to the bench. Right before he gets there, he turns to his back check and sweeps out his left arm, picking up speed as he knocks the stack of pucks to the ice. 

(One time he did this and promptly stepped on a puck, blowing a wheel and landing on his ass. He got to laugh at himself for a solid ten minutes, giggling in pain like idiot. Not his proudest moment, but one of his funnier ones.)

This time however, he continues rather smoothly, scooping up three pucks and bringing them with him towards the center circle. From there he practices moving with all three, sometimes dropping one, sometimes leaving all three to get back into his rhythm skating on the circle. 

He does this for a while, just practicing changing his edges, opening, even changing direction when he gets dizzy. When he decides he’s bored with that, he arranges two of the pucks on the center line, and does stick handling with the remaining one inside the circle. 

From there he goes into longer drills, ones that are more complex and require more space. Patrice lets himself get lost in it, skating out the kinks until it feels like he’s barely working. The feeling of gliding across the ice is so familiar, soothing in a way nothing else can be.

When he’s done with drills, bored with puck movement and tired of the burn in his forearms that stick handling produces, he corals all the pucks back into a bucket and puts his stick up against the bench wall.

The end is always his favorite part. It’s not a normal routine, not really. In fact, it isn’t something purely hockey, because he doesn’t really use much of what hockey requires.

It feels oddly freeing to strip his pads into a pile, to remove his tape and socks, and drop his helmet atop the pile.

His skates go back on, and the jersey, and then he’s back out on the ice, just long black spandex, a tight undershirt, jersey, gloves, and skates. 

Bergy just skates. 

Well he-

He can’t say he _ just _ skates. It’s not a lazy sort of thing (sometimes it is), and it’s not thoughtless (sometimes it can be) but it’s him. 

Every turn, every cut and every toe pick and every jump or spin or movement is just _ him _. It’s Patrice in every way he feels, stripped free of his sport but still dancing on the platform it offers.

It grounds him. It’s probably the reason he does any of this, really. 

He’s just finishing, breathless and exhausted but feeling like he’s _ alive _, when there’s a noise from behind the bench.

Patrice doesn’t quite fall on his face, but it’s a near thing. The toe of his left skate catches, feet uncoordinated in surprise, and he manages to twist around and land on both blades before he can go down. He turns sharply to look for whatever made the noise. Panic is already rising in his chest as his eyes quickly scan the bench area, looking for whoever might’ve seen him.

It feels like the ice has dropped out from underneath him when he locates the person. 

He must’ve gone to sit down, or walk away. Toe hit the blade of his stick, knocked it over. In the nearly silent rink, it sounded like gunshot.

“Oh christ.” He breathes out, staring wide eyed at the person staring wide eyes back. “Are- are you-”

He can’t breath. He can’t even think. It’s nothing past the murky panic enveloping his thoughts and white hot shame covering his skin.

“Well I-” Brad makes some aborted gesture towards the doors. “You weren’t answering your phone, which like- sleep, I get that, so I went to your place but you weren’t there? I even used my key, and it was like you just sorta got up and left, and like- I, I got worried, and I thought about how you mentioned skating to calm down, so I figured- I- um…” 

“Did you-” He cuts off Marchy’s rambling. “Did you...see?” Patrice finishes lamely, voice weak. 

“Yeah.” Brad breathes out, and then he’s _ smiling, _ this great big blinding thing. He looks sort of- proud? A mix of pride and awe? Pride, and awe, and something else. Something- bigger. “Yeah, I saw, and- god, Patrice.”

Bergy flinches, wrapping his arms around himself and ducking his head. 

“I-” He starts, then has to stop when his voice cracks. It was watery, and he can’t get it together. He didn’t mean to- to get caught. It was just for him, this thing he did. Wearing Brads jersey, skating free like that, it’s the closest he was ever going to get to being with him.

And now Brad knows about it, and he’s going to go tell the team, make it like some joke.

Patrice takes a deep breath and shifts his weight, studying the cuts they make when he move slightly. “I didn’t- I’ll, I should’ve asked? It won’t happen again, I- I’m sorry.” He whispers the last words, because it’s- it’s obvious now isn't it? How pathetic he is, in love with his liney, wearing his fucking jersey around, skating at night because he can’t sleep.

How _ painfully _in love he is.

“Bergy- hey I’m not mad.”

Of course not. 

Patrice tries to wipe at his eyes discretely, and fails horribly. “Yeah, because it’s just a joke right?” He asks bitterly. “Because we’re just- just _ best friends _, eh?”

He still can’t look at Brad, but he hears the sharp intake of breath.

“God, please tell me that’s not what you think.”

Bergy laughs and it’s not humerus at all, in fact it sounds like he’s one step away from crying. Because he is. Or he is already crying. Whichever. He hates this. He hates that he’s been found, that he’s been seen here, doing something so inherently private. He hates that it’s been ruined, intruded upon but the one person he trusts more than anything. 

“It’s what you told me right?” He finally tears his gaze up to look at Brad. “What you told everyone? I get it you know, it’s just a fucking- it’s not a big deal. Don’t- don’t make it a big deal.”

The thing is though, Marchy doesn’t look like he just got handed the best chirping material of all time. In fact, he doesn’t look happy at all. Every emotion from before is gone, and instead, Brad looks devasted.

“You’re wearing my jersey while skating at three in the morning because you can’t sleep and you _ didn’t tell me about it _.” He snaps. “It’s a big deal. To me.”

“Marchy, _ please- _” 

“Shut up, will you?” And jesus, now Brad looks like he’s about to cry too. “Just- we’re both really fucking stupid, and I will totally take the blame for how this happened, but like- I wouldn’t- I wouldn’t make fun of you for this. I wouldn’t hurt you like that.”

“But you did!” Patrice snaps, anger making him move forward. “You did and you do, everytime you wear that- that fucking jersey! You walk around with _ my _ name on your back, and you act like it’s nothing! Like it means _ nothing _ . And maybe it doesn’t to you, but it means a lot to me, and I _ hate _that you can joke about it while I’m sitting here just wondering what it would feel like to-” 

He cuts himself off, swallowing. He knows what he was about to say- how it would’ve really done him in.

_ ‘What would it feel like,’ _ He wonders. ‘ _ To have it be _ real _ ? _’

“I wore that on a bet.” Brad responds, quieter, but his voice is steel. 

Patrice just wants to go home. “Not helping.”

“I wore it on a bet with Tuukka and Pasta.”

“I mean it.”

“We were at a bar, right, so the alcohol had something to do with it because we were talking about relationships-”

“Marchy-”

“-and Rask, the tactile guy he is, asks why we weren’t together yet-”

“_ Brad- _”

“-and I said that I could wear your jersey on my back everyday for a month, and you _ still _wouldn’t get that I liked you.”

Patrice feels his breath lodge in his throat. Probably catching on the giant lump that’s settled there making it hard to swallow and has his eyes burning.

Brad is also, definitely crying. He feels torn inside out, all of himself bared to see. But only ever for Brad, only ever for him, because he’s always fallen in love easily, but he’s never _ stayed _ in love. He’s never loved someone as unique as Marchy. He’s never _ not _wanted to move on from someone.

“I watched you.” Marchand tells him. “I watched you skate, with my number, and my name, and _ Patrice- _” He chokes on a sob, turns it into a little hiccup. Bergy skates closer, nearly trembling with emotion. 

With- with hope.

He stops right in front of Brad, the bench door being the only thing separating them. He doesn’t say anything. He can’t. Not when Marchy lays a hand over his heart, touching the jersey so carefully, like it’s something precious, just because Patrice is wearing it.

They breath together, once, twice, then-

“I’ve never seen anything so beautiful, so gorgeous, as you.” Brad whispers, and Patrice leans down and kisses him.

It’s a shame, how he sort of blanks out during it, but he knows Brad kisses him back, knows how his heart seems to quite literally explode in his chest. He knows it’s going to happen again, and again, and _ again _ , because they’re _ Bergeron and Marchand _, and they have never been anything but solid together.

Brad’s arms are around his neck, holding on. Keeping Patrice just a mere few inches from him, foreheads pressed together.

“I love you.” He says, and it feels like the worst truth and the heaviest secret. Falling from his lips so simply, taking with it the weight that’s sat on Patrice’s shoulders for so long.

_ ‘Say it back.’ _ He begs silently. _ ‘Please say it back.’ _

“My tiny dancer.” Brad whispers. “I love you too.”

**Author's Note:**

> So a lot of shit happened and I'm still not done with my bennguin exchange, but this was basically written in less than an hour, and then left alone for two weeks, finished in another hour and left alone for another four days and now im finally done with it lol. 
> 
> Thanks so much for reading! Please leave a comment if you liked it/ would like to see brads pov.


End file.
